


In the Employ of Scirland

by raiining



Category: A Natural History of Dragons, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, First Time, M/M, No dragons were harmed in the writing of this fanfiction, Virgin!Phil, Wanderer!Clint Barton, Wealthy gentleman!Phil Coulson, actually there are no dragons at all in this fanfiction, don't read for the dragons, lol, read for the sex, victorian sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson is a spy in the service of his country, and a personal friend of Nick Fury, Scirland's Director of Public Security.  When Fury sends him on an expedition to Vystrana and recommends a wanderer by the name of Clint Barton as his guide, Phil has no idea that his life is about to be irrevocably changed.  </p>
<p>(An Avengers/A Natural History of Dragons fusion AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR THE BOOK.
> 
> This was a fantastic novel, and I encourage everyone to read it if you can. Despite it being a ‘memoir’, Marie Brennan does a fantastic job of not spoiling the ending with foreshadowing. Therefore, I HIGHLY RECOMMEND that you read the novel first, enjoy it to the last drop, and then come back and see where Phil and Clint fit into this world (because I couldn’t very well leave them behind, now could I?)
> 
> *g*
> 
>  
> 
> Re. the world:
> 
> This novel is a just-around-the-corner fantasy AU, set in a world very similar to Victorian England, only where dragons are another natural predator. They have not been domesticated and do not talk. The Industrial Revolution (or something similar) is just getting started, and technology is on the cusp of exploding. Tensions among the notable nations is rising, and war may be inevitable. 'Scirland' can be thought of as England, and ' Falchester' is basically London.

Phil landed at the port of Trinque-Liranz in Chiavora, relieved to be on solid ground once more. His fact-finding mission to the deserts of Akhia had progressed well. Ambassador Tusconi was sympathetic to Scirlish interests, and could likely be relied upon as an ally. 

He disembarked with the other travellers and took a set of rooms at the local Scirlish inn. As was his habit, Phil had kept extensive notes during his travels. He needed only a day to organize his thoughts before mailing the entire package to his friend and employer, Mr. Nick Fury.

The _copied_ notes, that was. Phil always kept the originals for himself. Both sets were written in a private code that he and Nick had devised together at school. If the package went astray or was captured by Ahkian nationalists, it would prove difficult to break. 

Phil himself would follow the missive within a few days. He had made several plans in advance of his returning to Vystrana which, depending on the weather, were designed to get him back to Scirland with all possible haste. As much as he enjoyed warmer climates, Phil had been away from his homeland for almost two years. He missed Falchester, his friends, and most especially his family’s small manor house. 

Phil was self-aware enough to know that the moment he walked in the front doors, he would be itching to leave again. The manor in which he had grown up was now too much his brother’s property. Their father had passed away several years ago while Phil was travelling to the Moulish swamps on business, and his older brother Robert was now the head of the family.

Younger brothers, Phil reflected as he re-copied his notes, needed to be either very present or very absent in an older brother’s life. A younger brother should either be an essential man of the household, indispensable to his older brother’s success, or he had to be so far away from home and memory that he was barely thought of at all.

Phil much preferred the second option. His brother, he knew, felt the same. By mutual accord, the two sons of Baron Coulson had decided that Robert would continue to fund Phil’s expeditions to strange and remote corners of the world, as long as his expeditions kept him from Scirland for extended periods of time.

The problem was that Robert had a mind for business, and not much else. Phil could balance accounts with the best of them, but he had always itched for more. When he had met Nick Fury at university, Phil had realized that ‘more’ was very much within his grasp. Had he remained at home, he and Robert would have butted heads constantly; away, he could remember Scirland favourably, and occasionally long to return.

He might last a fortnight, Phil reasoned, as he walked the short distance from his rented rooms to the post office. Perhaps a month might pass before he would be applying to Nick for another mission away.

Nick Fury was the distinguished only son of a prominent Baron, a position which would gain him much influence and wealth when his father passed away. Fortunately for all involved, Baron Fury remained in good health. Nick was granted the freedom to pursue other interests, and had done so by seeking a position within the government. As the Director of Public Security, Nick attracted little interest, leaving him free to construct the most extensive surveillance network ever known. He was less fiercely patriotic, Phil knew, than intensely practical. He understood, as Phil himself did, that war was brewing on the horizon. Too many new technologies had been discovered too quickly, and Scirland possessed very few of the rich iron deposits such inventions required. 

Nick’s ultimate hope, Phil understood, was for peace, but he was pragmatic enough to plan for war. This, then, was the reason for Phil’s journey to Akhia. He went as a tourist, as he usually did, his name now associated with travel journals and articles he had published throughout the years. Phil was hardly a scholar, but he did enjoy taking notes. Few suspected that alongside his now famous travel journal was the smaller, slimmer version that he wrote in only in code. In this, Phil had described troop placements, battle readiness, and the names of ambassadors and their particular habits. He had constructed an overall assessment of the country, both as a potential enemy and a possible ally.

Scirland had other spies, of course, but Phil knew Nick trusted his judgment. Due to his position, Nick was unable to leave Scirland itself, and he often referred to Phil as his ‘one good eye’. 

Phil enjoyed his job, but it had been eighteen months since he had been home and it was time for a rest. Arriving at the post office, Phil purchased an appropriate container, placed within it his carefully written notes, and sealed the shipment against both weather and tampering. He then paid the postage and arranged for his mail to be delivered with the nearest shipment bound for Scirland. Phil’s transport would follow the missive within a few days, but it would be a passenger liner, not a speed-ship. His report should precede him by several weeks.

Pleased with himself, Phil turned to leave. It was with great surprise that he heard his name being called by the postmaster.

“Mr. Phillip Coulson?” the man enquired. Phil confirmed that he was so. “I have a package for you, sir.”

Phil took the slim box with trepidation. It would not be the first time he had been nearly home when an order from Nick Fury had sent him back into the field. Sure enough, the return address on the box was Nick’s own, from his house in Falchester. Phil sighed and returned to his rented lodgings.

Once there, he confirmed that he was alone and set about opening the box, disarming the various traps Nick had set within it. The note itself was written in code, but as it was the same code he and Nick used for all their correspondence, it took Phil very little time to decipher it. He sat back after finishing the missive, and frowned.

So, the Vysrani boyar Iosif Khirzoff had discovered the secret to preserving dragon bones, though it had cost him his life. This was a heady discovery. Dragons were powerful creatures, but light in the air. There must be a secret strength hidden within their bones, and if a nation could learn that secret...

Phil shivered. He wholeheartedly agreed with his friend – the world was not ready for such a discovery. War was inevitable when there was too little of a resource to go around, and if that resource was _dragons_ …

No. It did not bear thinking about. 

His earlier fatigue forgotten, Phil quickly sorted through his luggage. His clothing was all designed for warmer climates, and he would have to make some purchases before leaving the harbour town. Phil memorized the name of the contact Nick had recommended, a Mr. Clinton Francis Barton. The man appeared to be a wanderer of some kind, currently based, Nick thought, in the Vystrani foothills. Phil wrote a quick letter to this Mr. Barton, posting it on his way to the garmet district. He would need at least a week to organize an expedition into Vystrana and go over the details Nick had provided with a fine-toothed comb before he could meet his guide, if indeed Barton could be found.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil considered himself to be very near an expert traveller at this point in his life, but he had never been into the mountains of Vystrana. He made the best clothing selections he could, and listened to the advice of other travellers he encountered. Several recognized his name and appeared eager to help the notable tourist Phil Coulson in his effort to see the Vystrani countryside. They often made contradicting suggestions, but by sifting through the kernels Phil was able to gain some reasonable advice.

He made his selections and purchased a new horse for the duration of his journey, a stocky, rough-looking thing that was hardly the well-proportioned animal his brother Robert would have deemed worthy to ride. Phil’s horse seemed likely to survive in the mountains, however, where Robert’s high-bred stallions would surely perish. Phil smiled to himself at the thought.

He had received an answering letter from Mr. Barton the day before he had planned to leave Trinque-Liranz. It confirmed that he would meet Phil at the time and place Phil had indicated. The writing was clearly done by scribe, and Phil wondered if his guide were illiterate. It hardly mattered; Phil was not hiring the man for his penmanship.

Phil left the following day, setting out with his saddlebags packed and brimming. He considered, as he often did at the start of a new journey, how much he had changed since his first expedition, so many years ago. Then, Phil had travelled as many noblemen's sons travelled, with a donkey train, several servants, and far too much equipment. 

Phil liked to think he had gained some small wisdom in the intervening years. He now packed lightly and travelled with minimal company. He was used to silence, and his missions were more circumspect than they had been in the past. It would be useful to be able to leave Barton in a small town and proceed to the designated location alone on foot. Certainly the information Phil was seeking was too important to trust to another.

Before he left the harbour alone on his new horse, Phil had written a short note to Fury and directed that it be sent to Scirland with speed. It detailed that Phil had received Nick’s instructions, and was proceeding with all possible haste. 

He wondered, now, if he should have written more. He could have detailed his travel plans or provided a rough sketch of his itinerary. Phil had noted the dangers Nick had detailed in his letters, especially the information about dragons. The animals had been roused by the hunt lead by Iosif Khirzoff. So long as he did not trouble them, Phil had imagined he would be safe.

There had been several dark mutterings, however, as Phil had left Trinque-Liranz, about dragons attacking random passengers. It was not a concern this far south, but several people had recently come from Sanverio, which bordered with Vystrana. The rumours were that the mere sight of a rifle now inspired the dragons to violence. Phil understood that Vystrani rock-wyrm dragons were very well camouflaged in their natural environment. He scanned the rising hills as he travelled the Vystrani countryside. There could be innumerable dragons watching him even now, alert for any signs of danger.

Phil covered the butt of his rifle more securely. He did not want to appear in any way a threat.

It was a relief to finally reach Truevni. The journey had only taken several days, but his watchfulness made it appear longer. The road was empty, despite the time of year. Early autumn was the last chance for travel before snow came to the mountains – it should have been busy with loaded carts carrying goods across the roads.

The people were obviously afraid of dragon attack. Phil could not blame them, even as he sympathized with the dragons themselves. He hoped their breeding season was during the winter months, and that they would spread out again to fill the caves Khirzoff's hunt had emptied.

Reaching Truevni, Phil looked about the small town. He tried to compare it to other villages he had seen, and failed. The cities of the south had no mountains such as these, and as such the base topography was unfamiliar to him. Despite the importance of his mission, he felt a thrill – it had been quite some time since he had visited a place so wholly unique.

As he had travelled, Phil had continued to write in his notebooks, one in simple Scirlish and the other in code. There was no sign of any army in Vystrana, as there could not in a subject state of the Bulskove Tsars. This was a nation of hunters and farmers, though. Phil knew from experience how dangerous such men could be when their homes and families were threatened.

Still, Phil could not envision battle here. The population was numerous enough to overwhelm, but the topography insured that resistance fighters would simply vanish into the crags at the first sign of danger. The Vystrani people obviously hated their Bulskoi overlords, but just as evidently were used to them. No real violence was levelled against their people. The taxes were an annoyance, but one that they could bear. For the most part, the Bulskoi kept their distance, allowing the people of Vystrana their own customs and religions without interference.

Indeed, without even learning the language. Phil could not understand such oversight – if he were a boyar of Vystrana, he would certainly do his best to learn everything he could about his people. Khirzoff had obviously not felt the same. 

Phil could see the delicate balance at play here, and wrote about it in code. If Scirland needed, it would not take much to raise these people against their Bulskoi overlords.

Such thoughts occupied him as negotiated for a room at the local inn. He had built some padding into his schedule, being unsure of the weather and the likelihood of dragon attack. He still had two days before he was due to meet Mr. Barton.

To Phil’s surprise, the man himself appeared the next morning when Phil was in town augmenting his supplies. 

“Mr. Phil Coulson?” a quiet voice enquired.

Phil turned away from the display of leather wear. “Yes?”

“Please to make your acquaintance, sir,” the man said stiffly. “My name is Clint Barton.”

Phil nodded and bowed. He took the opportunity to assess his guide. 

Clint Barton appeared every inch the wanderer. He wore practical, if somewhat stained, travelling gear made of leather and thick cotton that would survive well in the mountainous region. His boots were worn, but hardy. He carried a small pack on his back as well as a full quiver. A long sheath fastened at the top end held what Phil suspected to be a longbow, or something similar. A simple hat adorned his head, hiding what appeared to be a shock of dirty-blonde hair. His face was handsome, in a rough sort of way, and his short stubble pointed to a recent shave. The planes of his face were certainly appealing. His eyes appeared, on first glance, to be blue, but on second to be brown and on a third green. They were a kaleidoscope, Phil decided – a veritable whirlwind of colour. 

He looked, on the whole, to be a very capable man, and one who would not trust easily. Phil felt relief. He had travelled many times with companions much less pleasant than this.

Of course, the man had barely said two words to him. He could turn out to be a completely odious person, but Phil did not think so. Over time, he had perfected what had been a natural gift for gathering first impressions, and his gut told him that he and Mr. Barton would get along very well indeed.

“Excellent,” Phil said. “I am glad that you found me. I was just adding to my supplies. Tell me, Mr. Barton, which of these tool kits would you suggest we bring with us on our journey?”

Barton raised an eyebrow at the question, but turned dutifully towards the display case. The leather kits were full of a number of apparently useful things, but they were different enough from the regular sort of instruments Phil was familiar with to baffle him. 

“This one, sir,” Barton finally said, pointing to a middle-priced kit. 

“May I ask why, Mr. Barton?” 

His guide did not hesitate. “It includes leather working tools, sir, which may prove helpful, as well as materials needed to maintain a bow. I do not know if you carry one, sir, but they are very useful in the mountains at this time of year, and especially recently.”

Phil nodded. “Yes, I have heard of the problem with dragons, and how rifles appear to anger them. I confess I do not carry a bow, Mr. Barton, but if you do we shall be well supplied. I will take this kit, please,” Phil said to the storekeeper, pointing at Barton’s selection. The man nodded and the exchange occurred.

“We should probably examine the rest of my supplies, Mr. Barton, and make any needed purchases this afternoon. If possible, I would like to leave tomorrow, though that is earlier than I had planned. Does that suit you?”

Barton nodded and followed him out the shop and back to his rented rooms, matching his stride. “It does, sir.”

They spent a good hour going over Phil’s equipment. Watching Barton handle his supplies, Phil felt his estimation of the man grow. He clearly knew what was important and what was not, and had a mind that planned for every scenario. Phil could not help but wonder how much easier his own expeditions would have gone in the past, had he had Barton along.

It was a foolish thing to wonder. Phil had survived. That was enough.

In the end, Barton recommended few additions. He likewise seemed pleased with Phil’s state of preparation. They left Phil’s rooms to make the small purchases needed, and then paused in the street.

“I find myself in need of some sustenance,” Phil confessed. “Will you join me for dinner and help me plot our route?”

Barton seemed surprised, but readily agreed. They took a table at the inn and ordered dinner. Phil brought the map he had purchased in Trinque-Liranz that he had labelled with Nick’s notes. Barton frowned at it.

“This is not quite accurate, sir,” he said, and tapped his finger upon the parchment. “If I may?”

“Certainly,” Phil said, and proffered him a pencil. Barton took it and made a few small changes. 

They spent hours poring over the map, Barton’s expertise serving them well. Together they outlined a travel plan that would get them up the mountain and in the general direction of Khirzoff's old hunting lodge. Nick felt that was where his discoveries had taken place. 

If Barton guessed their final destination, he did not say. He simply nodded and made a number of course corrections.

They planned to leave together early the next morning. Barton informed Phil that he’d arranged lodgings elsewhere, and would meet him at the inn at dawn. Phil suspected he had a tent set up in the wilderness close by, and invited him to stay indoors in Phil’s rooms. It would make leaving in the morning easier, he argued. Barton disagreed, but did so politely. Phil let him be.

He found himself contemplating his guide as he readied himself for bed. Barton was certainly an interesting man, and not at all what Phil had expected from Nick’s vague writings. He had pictured someone older, whereas Barton had to be at least five years Phil’s junior, if not more. What had occurred in his life to make the occupation of wanderer and sometimes guide an attractive one?

He was certainly competent. Phil could admit to himself that Barton’s competence was nearly as attractive as the man himself. In that department, Barton was clearly not lacking – his face was a study in rough beauty, and the kaleidoscope colour of his eyes had fascinated Phil throughout dinner. Indeed, it had sometimes been a struggle to look at the map, instead of staring at Barton’s face.

Phil took a deep breath before climbing into bed. He had been aware of his attraction to other men his entire life – it was a dangerous condition, and one that could ruin him, should he let it. He did not intend to. His feelings for Barton must proceed as all other attractions had in the past – in his mind only, and not acted upon in the physical world. He would keep a tight rein on his feelings throughout their journey, and allow himself only after they had parted ways to think of Barton as he wanted to even now, with intimate thoughts. 

Resolutely, Phil blew out the light and settled himself underneath the covers. He turned his attention to their route, and traced imaginary footsteps through the mountain passes until he fell asleep at last.


	3. Chapter 3

Phil woke early the next morning. He breakfasted quickly and packed his few remaining items into his bags with haste. Barton appeared just as Phil was settling his bill, while the sun was peeking hesitantly over the horizon. They set out of town together, each in the saddle of his own horse.

Phil was nervous that morning, conscious of his thoughts the previous night. He was aware that he would be spending a considerable amount of time in Barton’s company over the coming weeks and was determined not to embarrass himself. The next six days passed quickly, however,with no time for such concerns. The terrain was rugged, and the mountain air seemed to sap his strength. Phil struggled to assist in every way that he could, taking it upon himself to unload and rub down the horses when they stopped, while Barton set up camp. He had learned some useful things during his travels, such as how to boil mash. Barton preferred to ride with his bow at the ready, an arrow fitted to the string. He scanned the skies constantly, but also the rocks and crags along their path. If he could, he shot for their supper from the saddle, and would prepare the rabbit or wild turkey while Phil tended the fire.

Indeed, Barton’s extraordinary competence was on display every minute of every day. Phil would have found himself in real danger were he not so exhausted by the pace. He had barely enough strength to peel his jacket from his shirt before burrowing under his covers for the night.

For the first six days, Phil slept without dreams. He was thankful for small mercies. By the seventh, however, his body had accustomed itself to the mountainous air, and what muscle he had lost during his lengthy sea crossing had returned.

“We are not far from Ruzvorchi now, sir,” Barton said on the seventh morning. It was the first sentence he had uttered in more than two days. Phil would have found it disconcerting, how little Barton spoke, if they had not moved so easily together. They had found their rhythm immediately, and after a week were able to go about their day with several nods and acknowledging looks, and very little conversation.

“Excellent, Mr. Barton,” Phil said. “I am finally finding my mountain legs – quite different than sea legs, of course.” He smiled ruefully. “I commend you for not snapping at me over this past week. You must have chafed at our slow pace.”

Unexpectedly, Barton blushed. “Not at all, sir,” he said. He coughed to clear his throat. “I thought we made good time, actually. Much better than other travellers I could name.”

Phil could not suppress a grin. “Yes, well, Sir Wellworth may _write_ very good travel books, but I somehow doubt the veracity of his statements.”

Sir Wellworth was something of a contemporary of Phil’s, a gentleman of high birth with a will to travel. The published accounts of his adventures made for enjoyable reading, but Phil could not believe the man had actually wrestled the grizzly bear that had invaded their camp.

Sir Wellworth had travelled to Vystrana some years ago, and his account of Ruzvorchi was an excellent camouflage for Phil’s true purpose. Their animosity was well known. Phil had been asked several times why he had not yet made his own journey to Vystrana, if only to refute Sir Wellworth’s claims.

“He certainly does not look like a man to storm rock-wyrm caves,” Barton said with a smile. 

“Have you met him?”

Barton’s lips thinned for a moment, but he answered the question. “I have had the pleasure of his company on one expedition, yes. To the cape of Thiessin.”

Phil winced. He had heard tell of that journey, and it could not have been a pleasant affair. “Oh, dear.”

Barton dusted his hands off on his trousers, and stood up from where he had been crouched over the fire. “Yes, well. We had best be getting on, sir.”

“Of course, Mr. Barton,” Phil said. He rose as well, and went about readying the horses. Barton stripped the camp, and they were on the trail before another twenty minutes had passed.

They did indeed reach Ruzvorchi later that evening. Barton paused outside the small town.

“Sir,” he began, and then hesitated. Phil waited patiently. He knew by now that if Barton had something to say, it would be something worth hearing. 

Barton met his eyes, seemed to square his shoulders, and went on. “If you desire secrecy, I would suggest we sell the horses and leave them here at Ruzvorchi. We can proceed the rest of the distance on foot.”

Phil stared at his guide. He wondered how much Barton had guessed of his true purpose. “Oh?”

Barton flushed, but held his chin high. “Yes, sir. If we take the horses any further, it will be noted and remarked upon. We can cross the same distance more easily off the main path, but only if we travel by boot.”

Phil turned the suggestion over in his mind. He visualized the map he had been checking every night. The distance still appeared, to him, to be rather large.

“Would we not lose too much time, if we were to go by foot?”

Barton seemed relieved that Phil had not taken offence at his suggestion. He shook his head. “No, sir. I know a shortcut we can take; that is, if your destination is still Khirzoff's hunting lodge.”

Phil raised his eyebrows, but met Barton’s eyes. “It is.” 

Barton nodded, and was the first to look away. He seemed aware he had overstepped his place. Phil could not fault him for it, though. “Very well, Mr. Barton. Let us see about selling the horses. Unless, of course, you cannot bear to part with yours, and then we shall simply stable them.”

Barton shook his head. “No, sir. She’s a good horse, but I only purchased her for this journey. She will serve another just as well.”

Phil nodded and nudged his mount forward. Together they continued into town. Once there, Phil arranged lodgings while Barton bargained for the horses. He found Phil once the process was complete. 

“I told them we were hunting for furs. I doubt they believed me, but when we don’t return within a few days, they will assume the dragons got us and think of it no more.”

“You are sure about that?” Phil questioned. “They will not mention our presence to outsiders?”

For the first time since he had spoken up, Barton smiled. “You do not know much about the Vystrani, do you, sir? They do not talk to outsiders of anything.”

Phil shrugged. “Very well, then.”

They passed a relatively pleasant night. The accommodations were not luxurious, but it was nice to sleep in a proper bed for once. Phil rolled the matter of Barton’s knowledge and obvious intelligence around in his mind. Finally making his decision, he fell asleep.

In the morning, they departed, speaking often of the animals they would hunt. It was only when they were outside the town that they turned away from the valleys and towards their true destination. 

Barton led the way without pause for several hours. They stopped for a mid-day snack, and Barton assembled their supplies into a reasonable lunch. Phil, though able to boil mash, was not much of a cook. He took the opportunity to rest his tired feet. Scrambling about in the mountains on foot was not the same as travelling on horseback. 

Barton seemed to show little sign of fatigue, however. He kept his gaze on the ground, saying not a word to Phil and seemingly unable to meet his eye. Phil wondered if he was embarrassed about speaking his mind.

They stopped for the night in the lee of the mountain, somewhat protected from the wind and the elements. It was not a cave, but with their tents and possessions, it would do very nicely. Phil wanted nothing more than to eat his dinner and fall asleep, but he forced himself to remain awake. There was a conversation they needed to have.

“Please sit with me for a moment, Mr. Barton,” Phil said after dinner, when Barton would have excused himself and gone to bed. “I believe we have several things we need to discuss.”

The sun had set by now, and the firelight was their only source of illumination. Phil watched the flames play on his companion’s face, the soft glow dancing along Barton’s throat as he swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

He sat back down at the fireside. Phil took a moment to study him, noting again how Barton seemed unable to meet his eyes.

“You have obviously guessed that there is more to my purpose here in Vystrana than visiting the countryside,” Phil began. “I will not insult your intelligence by denying it. You have mentioned Khirzoff's hunting lodge, and you are correct – that is my eventual destination.”

Barton nodded, but kept his eyes on the fire. Phil sighed. “I will not prevaricate – I do have clandestine matters to see to at the hunting lodge. I regret that I cannot disclose more than that to you.”

Barton finally looked up. “I understand, sir,” he said quietly. “You have no reason to trust me.”

“I have every reason to trust you,” Phil countered. “I trust you with my life, and with the knowledge of my mission. That is more than I have ever shared with any person who has accompanied me on my journeys before, never suspecting my alternate purpose. The knowledge I possess is lucrative, and therefore dangerous. If I am captured by the Tsars, I will likely be tortured and killed. I cannot wilfully subject you to the same dangers.”

Barton looked startled. “It is that dangerous, sir?”

“It is,” Phil confirmed. He hesitated. He truly did want to tell Barton more, but knew he could not. “Suffice it to say it is a matter of Scirlish security, and one for which other nations would pay dearly.”

“Do you think we are being hunted, sir? By the Tsars?”

Phil shrugged. “I suspect so. Surely they know Khirzoff is dead, and I would not be surprised if we were to arrive at the hunting lodge and find it swarming with Bulskoi. I can only hope that the secret I go to investigate has not already been discovered. It is likely that spies among the townspeople have orders to report Scirland nationalists. The hope is that my relative fame as a tourist will protect me, but such a thing is not certain.”

Barton appeared uneasy. He shifted on the hard packed ground. “Is it so important then, sir?” he asked finally. “Should we not turn back now?”

Phil shook his head. “No, Mr. Barton. The knowledge _is_ important, and the stakes too high. No matter what the risk, I must complete my mission.” He hesitated. “I do, however, have a duty for you, should you choose to accept it.”

Barton frowned. “A duty, sir?”

Phil nodded. “A difficult one. If I am captured, or killed, I would ask that you leave immediately for the coast. Do you know who it was who recommended you to me?”

“A Mr. Nick Fury, sir. I assisted a friend of his once, in the Moulish swamps.”

“Exactly. He is my patron in this regard. I would appreciate if he could receive word of what has happened to me.”

Barton sat in silence for several minutes. “If we are not both already dead, and I find myself by the coast, I will send him a missive,” he finally promised. “I hope you understand, sir, that you are my employer and my charge. I cannot allow danger to come to you without facing it myself.”

“Absolutely not!” Phil stared at his companion in horror. “I tell you this to protect you, Mr. Barton, not so you can throw yourself to the wolves in front of me!”

“I will not throw myself anywhere, sir,” Barton said with a mulish clench to his jaw, “but I can hold my weight in a fight. My bow will not attract a dragon, while the Bulskoi may hesitate to fire rifles.”

Phil shook his head, despairingly. “This was not my design in telling you.”

“I know that, sir,” Barton told him, almost gently, “but you cannot inform me that you intend to put yourself in danger and not expect me to follow.”

Phil closed his eyes. “Fine,” he agreed, heartsick. “I will not be able to stop you, unless I hog-tie you to a tree and hope some traveller finds you before a wild creature does. I hired you for a reason, and that is because I know nothing of this country. I cannot reach my destination without you. We will leave this matter where it is at present.”

Barton nodded. When he looked up, he met Phil’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”


	4. Chapter 4

Hiking on foot in the mountains was slow going, but Phil was able to compare their progress to the map he studied at night. He was forced to conclude that they could not have gone much faster on horses, for they would have had to go the long way around the mountain, instead of very nearly directly up. Fortunately they had ropes and experience between them; the crags were difficult but hardly impossible to navigate. 

The atmosphere between them had softened. Barton still did not speak very much, and Phil respected his silence, but the air between them had cleared. The next morning dawned fair, and Phil could not help but remark on the stark beauty of their surroundings.

“Yes, sir,” Barton said, smiling. “This is half the reason I travel, to wake up to mornings such as this.”

“What is the other reason?” Phil asked without thinking. Barton’s smile dimmed, and Phil cursed himself for a fool. “No matter, forgive my impertinence,” Phil apologized. “Come, let us pack up camp.”

They had the tents tied away and the fire carefully put out before Barton spoke again. “It was a simple question, sir,” he said quietly, as they settled their packs for the day’s journey. “I am not used to a gentleman asking about my affairs.”

“I do not wish to presume,” Phil assured him. 

“You do not,” Barton said with a smile. “I will answer your question – the second reason I travel is because I was born to it. I spent most of my life with a travelling circus, crossing the continent. I find myself feeling itchy if I remain in one place for too long.”

“A travelling circus?” Phil asked with wonder. “That is marvellous! I have not seen one since I was a boy.”

Barton smiled. “There are several in Scirland, but not many – ocean travel is often difficult on the animals. It is where I learned the bow,” he offered, almost shyly. “I was taught by a man from Vystrana.”

“So you are not from these mountains yourself?” Phil asked. He had thought not – Barton was the wrong colouring for Vystrana – but he had not been so sure.

Barton shook his head. “No, my parents were Scirlish. I was born in that country, but did not remain there long.”

His birth seemed to be a sore subject, for Barton quieted again. Phil respected his wishes and readied his pack. They set off together in comfortable silence, but spoke again at lunch. Phil asked tentatively about the circus, and Barton answered him, warming slowly to his subject. He gave a fine account of the various acts they had gained and lost throughout his years with the show, including the fire walkers and sword-swallowers Phil remembered from his own childhood days.

Barton spoke little of himself, or of his act. He did not mention how old he had been during that time of his life, but he could not be more than eight and twenty, now. He had travelled extensively after his circus days, and therefore had to have been quite young during his time with the show. 

When they stopped for the night, Phil could not keep the images of a younger Clint Barton with paint on his face performing brilliantly out of his mind. He tossed and turned on his tiny cot, reminding himself that Barton was only a few feet away on a cot of his own. He would not appreciate it if he knew Phil was harbouring such a veritable fountain of inappropriate thoughts. 

He slept fitfully, pushing himself to his limits the next day, despite the fact that he was already tired and sore. Perhaps if he exerted himself, he would rest peacefully at night. Alas, it was not to be. Phil found his attraction to Barton only grew as their days together continued. Now that the barrier of silence had been removed, Phil found Barton even more amiable a companion. They spoke easily around the fire pit, and talked long into the night. They shared stories, and Phil found himself telling Barton of the ever-present feud he had with his brother, their current coldness towards each other, and the various mean tricks they had played as boys. Barton shared more stories from the circus and also mentioned that he had a brother, and that relations between them were not warm.

Phil had never enjoyed a man’s company more. It was as excruciatingly painful as it was utterly enjoyable.

They progressed well through the mountains. Whether it was luck, or the silent nature of Barton’s bow, they never once saw a dragon. Neither did they run into any of the Tsars' men. They did pass a Vystrani hunting party once, but hid until they went away. Phil did not think they had been seen.

They pored over the map constantly, checking their position. Barton had never been to Khirzoff's hunting lodge before, and Phil had only a rough idea of its position. It took them a week to walk to the approximate location, but once there, they found no sign of the lodge. The spent several more days travelling in circles, before finally admitting they were lost.

“There is a small village approximately a day’s walk from here,” Barton said, pointing at the map. “I can enquire there, and lead us in the proper direction.”

“How large of a village?”

Barton hesitated. “Very small. I know it only because the man who taught me the bow was from there. I have visited it several times – they will know me on sight.”

Phil bit his lip, an unfortunate habit of his while thinking. “Do you often travel with companions?”

Barton shook his head. 

“Then it is too dangerous,” Phil decided. “Even if I wait on the outskirts of town, many people in Ruzvorchi know we are travelling together. It would not be difficult for one of the Tsars' men to hear of you being in the village, and come looking for you.”

“I would be there only a day, maybe less,” Barton argued. “If I do not return, you have your answer. You can climb down the mountain by yourself, for you have the map.”

“I will not leave you to be captured and likely killed because of my mission,” Phil said firmly. “If we go into the village, we go together.”

“We _cannot_ go together,” Barton argued. “I will be perfectly fine. I have friends here – they will not speak of me to the Tsars' men.”

“Can you be sure who the Tsars' men are?” Phil challenged. “Were I in charge of their spy network, I would have taken advantage of the obvious disregard that the Bulskoi have for the Vystrani language. I would send several well disguised spies into the villages surrounding the hunting lodge, people who could pass as Vystrani hunters.”

“I think you give the Tsars too much credit,” Barton said dryly. “Not everyone is as efficient and intelligent as you.”

Phil refused to let the compliment go to his head, or be distracted by the winsome way in which Barton smiled while delivering it. “It is too dangerous to split up. We will go together or not at all.”

Barton was clearly not happy with the decision, but he made no further argument. They needed directions. They slept that night in their camp, and then made their way towards the town together the next morning. Phil kept a careful eye on his companion. He suspected Barton would suggest they make camp a half-day from the town, and then leave in the morning before Phil awoke. He would have no choice but to remain by himself at camp and hope that Barton returned.

Phil had no intention of letting him do any such thing.

Fortunately for Phil’s sanity, if not for Barton’s, they soon came across a grisly discovery that drove away all such notions of splitting up. Not three hours into their journey, Barton raised his right hand into a fist, signalling a stop. Phil automatically ducked and felt for the rifle, hiding himself as well as he could behind a jutting rock. Barton, who always carried his bow at the ready, took a second arrow from his quiver and notched them both to the string. He stepped forward carefully into a small clearing.

Phil watched his back, scanning the surrounding countryside for danger. It was quiet, but Phil knew Barton had better eyesight than he did. He had often spied a rabbit and shot it for dinner before Phil could distinguish the hidden animal from its natural camouflage. 

Finally, Barton whistled, the signal that all was clear. Phil stepped out from behind his rock and quickly advanced on his position. 

Barton was standing stock-still, his shoulders tense and angry. Phil could not see what had disturbed him until he was nearly at the other man's shoulder. When he did, he gasped.

Lying in the dirt, half-hidden by the tall mountain grasses, was a man’s severed torso. His head and upper limbs had been completely removed, and all that remained was the bottom half of his abdomen and legs, his boots still incongruously laced on his feet. 

Phil mastered himself, and looked about. He could see no signs of a campsite, but there were two dead rabbits lying not far away. It seemed clear this man had been a hunter, returning to the village after making a day’s kill.

Even if it were not immediately obvious what had killed him, the fact that a rifle lay not three feet away confirmed it.

“A dragon,” Phil said quietly.

Barton nodded stiffly. His hands, Phil could see, were shaking. Phil had never, in their long weeks of travel, seen his hands shake before. The sight disturbed him. Could Barton be that terrified of dragons? It seemed a reasonable fear.

Barton lowered his bow, and turned to Phil. Phil could see the naked emotion on his face, and watched as Barton struggled to contain it.

“We are not splitting up,” the man said quietly.

Phil realized Barton was not afraid for himself – he was frightened for Phil. “I will not fire the rifle,” he promised gently, wishing only to soothe Barton’s fear. “No dragon will come for me.”

Barton shook his head. “What if you are attacked by wolves or cougars? I see them sometimes, stalking us, even though you do not. They know enough to fear two men travelling together, but one?” He paled. “You would be forced to use the rifle, if only to buy yourself some safety. I could not bear it. To leave you here and go into town, and then return to find –” 

He sucked in a sharp breath. “No,” he continued in a tight voice. “No, you are right. We must go together.”

Phil realized he was preparing an argument, and shut his lips. This was what he wanted; he should not say otherwise just to reassure Barton.

The dead man had no identifying possessions, and the rabbits had been shot just long enough ago to spoil. Phil wanted to construct a burial for the man, but the hard mountain rock would not allow it, nor were there enough small stones around them to build a cairn. In the end, they were forced to leave him, marking the position as well as they could on their map, so relatives could find the place again, should they choose. The body, Phil knew, would likely be eaten by scavengers long before that could occur. 

Barton did stop them again before they reached the town, but not to set up camp. He had been quiet ever since he had agreed not to leave Phil behind, and he stood now with his mouth tight in unhappy concentration. He turned to Phil, and there was something shuttered in his gaze.

“As I said to you before, I am known to this small town. You asked if I travelled with companions, and I said I had not. That was not entirely true. I have been this way once before with a gentleman friend of mine, a man I no longer see.” He seemed to struggle with himself, and then finally said, “You have heard, I imagine, of the rumours of Vystrani gentlemen.”

Phil felt himself blush. He could hardly admit that was one particular reason why he had put off travelling to this region for so long. It would have been dangerous to indulge in his most secret desires. “I have heard they sometimes prefer men to women in their beds.”

Barton nodded stiffly. “Yes. I – that is to say, I have travelled here before, with a male companion, and –”

He did not, or perhaps could not, say more. Phil unexpectedly found himself smiling. “All is well, Mr. Barton. I understand the implication. You are saying that if we travel into town together, having obviously just come in from the wilderness, the townspeople will make the same assumption regarding us?”

Barton tightened his lips, but nodded again. Phil found himself chuckling. So, this was to be his particular torture – his payment for having spent so many nights tossing and turning in his bed! He understood the judgement. 

“Very well, Mr. Barton, I have been forewarned. Lead on, please.”

His companion eyed him a moment more, as if waiting for a sign that Phil would argue or protest against this insinuation. When Phil did not, Barton turned and led them again towards the town. Phil took a deep breath to quiet his ill-timed humour, and followed.


	5. Chapter 5

The town was indeed small. There was a marketplace of sorts, and a largish house that Barton said was the closest thing to an inn. Phil let him take the lead, and he rented them a room for the night. There was no option of taking a suite, for only a single room was to be had. The price, though, was moderate, and Barton accepted with a smile at the hostess, a woman who obviously remembered him fondly.

The sun was setting – they had made it to town with little time to spare. Phil followed Barton to their room; it was not far from the dining area, up one flight of stairs. It had, Phil could see upon entering, only one bed. 

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Barton said in a rush, obviously distressed. “I’ll take the floor, of course.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Phil said firmly, removing his pack and laying it next to the door. “You have done just as much hiking as I, and have been hunting as well. I will take the floor. It will do very nicely for me.”

“Absolutely not, sir, I could not bear it,” Barton said, shaking his head. “You are a gentleman – I am simply a circus boy grown up bad. It would be inappropriate –”

“Grown up bad?” Phil echoed, staring at Barton. “Pray, tell me that is not how you see yourself, Mr. Barton.”

Unexpectedly, Barton blushed. He looked at his feet. “Despite the kindness you have shown me on our journey,” he said, “and despite the fact that you insist on doing half the work, on top of carrying your own equipment, it can not be overstated that you are a gentleman, sir, and I am not.”

Phil stepped forward. “Clint,” he said, because it seemed necessary at that moment to use his given name, “when I look at you, I do not see a gentleman, it is true. I see someone far more worthy. I see a man who has made his own way in the world, who has fought hard for his place and his skill. I see a man who is intelligent, and competent, and –” he hesitated, but surely it was too late by now, “– and beautiful.”

Looking shocked, Clint raised his gaze from the floor. Phil felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. “F-forgive me,” he stammered, stepping back. “I forgot my place. I simply – ”

Clint cut him off. “You think I’m beautiful?” 

Phil looked into his awestruck face, and could not help but confess to everything. “I think you are the most handsome man I have ever met. You are the most spectacular in every particular – you cannot know your appeal to me, and I cannot over state it.”

Clint stared at him, his jaw dropping open. Phil licked his lips, wondering, but then Clint raised shaking hands to Phil's face, drew him in, and kissed him.

Phil lost himself in the kiss. His knees went weak, and he clutched at Clint’s shoulders. It was not enough – he gathered his strength and wrapped his arms around Clint, drawing him in against his chest. Clint gasped, surprised, and then dove forward again, capturing Phil’s mouth with his own.

They kissed for what felt like hours, slowly exploring the other. Phil dragged his hands across Clint’s back, learning the shape of him, and Clint groaned into his mouth, hanging onto his hips as if for dear life. 

Eventually, Phil could resist no longer. He stepped them backwards, towards the bed. Whatever protestations he might have made in the light of day, whatever rules by which he had governed his life, they could not withstand the heat of this man. The sun had set and twilight reigned. The dim light cast appealing shadows upon Clint’s face.

“Please,” he said, tugging Clint to the bed with him. “I want –”

He did not know what he wanted. He had never done this before. Clint groaned into his mouth and seemed to understand – he pushed past Phil and climbed onto the bed, then reached his out hands for Phil to join him.

Phil did so, with alacrity. He fell into Clint’s arms, and their mouths came together again. Phil rolled himself on top, enjoying the feel of Clint beneath him, as if he could prevent him from escaping with his weight. Clint did not protest, his hands travelling up and down Phil’s back, raising delicious sensations even through the layers of clothing that separated them.

Phil tried to tangle their legs together, and then stopped. They were both still wearing boots. With a curse, Phil rolled into a sitting position and tried to tug his boots from his feet. They would not go.

Clint chuckled as Phil began to attack the laces, making nothing more than a mess of the ties. “Allow me,” Clint said, toeing off his footwear and sliding gracefully to the floor at Phil’s feet.

Phil sucked in a breath at the sight of Clint on his knees. He felt himself stir, a powerful need that could not be hidden even by his thick cotton trousers. “Clint…” he began, unsure. “I do not… I have never…”

“Then let me show you,” Clint said, looking up at Phil through his lashes. Phil caught his breath at the look of utter desire on his face. “There is so much I want to show you.”

“Yes, anything, everything,” Phil babbled. 

Clint grinned. He turned his attention back to Phil’s boot, undoing the laces with gentle care. When both feet were free, he ran his hands up and down Phil’s legs, caressing him, and then leaned in close to Phil’s trousers. 

Phil gasped at the first touch of Clint’s hands on his sex. He had to fist his hands into the bedsheets to keep himself from spilling his desire then and there. Clint waited until Phil had mastered himself, his own breath coming hard, and then helped Phil remove himself from his trousers.

Still fully clothed, Clint slid his mouth up and over Phil’s length. Phil groaned and closed his eyes, trying desperately to control himself, but it was no use. 

“Clint, I –” Phil said, trying to warn him, but Clint merely took him deeper into his mouth. Phil’s breath hitched and he came, spilling himself down Clint’s throat. Clint swallowed, sucking him gently, and then licked him clean. When he had finished, Phil collapsed backwards onto the bed.

“My god,” he said finally, when he felt he could speak again. “ _Clint_.”

Clint grinned up at him from the floor. “I believe I like it when you say my name in that tone.”

“Get up here and you will hear it much more often,” Phil growled. Clint laughed but rose to his feet and climbed onto the bed. He wrapped himself around Phil.

There was a persistent hardness in Clint’s trousers. Phil rolled his hips experimentally, and Clint groaned.

Smiling, Phil shifted on the bed, lowering himself to Clint’s waist. He could hear the other man’s indrawn breath as Phil raised his hands to unlace Clint’s trousers. It was difficult to undress another man, certainly nothing like dressing himself, but Phil applied himself diligently to the task. Soon he had Clint’s trousers off. They joined Phil’s pants on the floor.

Staring at Clint’s length, Phil licked his lips and wondered. He very much liked what Clint had done, but was unsure if he could reciprocate. He didn’t want to make a mess of things. Clint seemed to understand his hesitation. He reached down and gently tugged Phil up, pulling him until they were lying next to each other in bed once more.

Clint began slowly, caressing Phil’s face. Phil bent his head into Clint’s hand, and then rolled them over again, trapping Clint once more beneath his weight. Clint seemed to enjoy that, for his arms came up to encircle Phil’s shoulders, holding him there.

They kissed languidly, and Phil rolled his hips again. This time it was the glorious feeling of skin against skin, and both their breaths hitched. 

Phil found a rhythm that seemed to suit them both – he kissed and caressed Clint while rolling his hips, driving Clint past breath and into gasps and moans. Soon, Clint stiffened beneath him, and Phil felt the wetness of his seed spill between them. Phil held him as he shuddered, melting again into the bed.

They stayed there together, cuddling close, until the cool air began to raise goosebumps along their flesh. Phil pulled away, wincing when their legs stuck together slightly. He tucked Clint under the covers, and left to find a washcloth to clean them up. The room was small, but there was a basin of water by the window with a stack of clean cloths. He dipped one into the water and wrung it out, then returned to the bedside.

Clint watched him with a fond, tired smile. Phil felt his breath catch, wondering how he could ever have gotten so lucky. Quickly, Phil cleaned them both, and then joined Clint under the covers.

They both still had their shirts on, but the air was cool and the sheets rather thin. Clint held his arms wide, and Phil nestled his way between them. He was not sure what it would be like, to spend the night with another person, but he was asleep before he could truly register the thought.


	6. Chapter 6

Phil slept deeply and well. He awoke in the early morning hours, as was his habit. He was still entwined with Clint, though they had shifted during the night. Instead of twisting together, Clint had at some point rolled over onto his side, and Phil had followed him. He woke up to find himself doing a rather good impression of a blanket.

Not wanting to disturb his companion, Phil tried to gently ease himself from bed. He had wrapped his arms around Clint sometime during the night, and Clint’s hands were on his. As he attempted to move, Clint’s fingers tightened around his own. “Do not go,” the other man murmured.

Phil kissed his shoulder in apology. “My bladder demands it,” he said, smiling against Clint’s skin. “I shall not be long.”

True to his word, Phil escaped the bed only long enough to relieve himself, and then slipped back in behind Clint, who had not moved. “Mmm,” Clint murmured, as Phil wrapped his arms around him again. 

Phil kissed his shoulder. “As much as it pains me to say it,” Phil began, but stopped when Clint tensed in his arms. “No, no,” he protested. “Do not alarm yourself, my dear. I was to say only that I believe we shall have to leave this wonderful bed, and present ourselves downstairs for breakfast at some point in the near future.”

Clint nodded, but his shoulders remained tight. Phil rubbed at them. “I did not mean to frighten you,” he apologized.

“You did not frighten me,” Clint protested, but he would not turn over in bed. “Five more minutes, and then I will get up.”

Phil agreed readily, and held him close. He had absolutely no intention of letting Clint go, if Clint did not want him to. He wondered, then, as he had not last night, what Clint’s experience with a scenario such as this had been. He _had_ experience, that much Phil knew. He found the knowledge did not bother him as much as he might have assumed it would – it was probably better than one of them knew what they were doing, for Phil certainly did not.

Clint may have formed similar arrangements with other men he had travelled with. There was his history with a “male companion” in this very village some time ago. Clint had said he was no longer seeing that man, and indeed, he gave the impression of being very much alone in the world. Phil could not fathom anyone, having tasted this, being willing to give it up. He knew he himself could not. For as long as Clint would allow it, Phil would keep him by his side.

He wondered how he might do so while Clint dozed. The sun peeked over the hills and shone pale autumn light into the room as Phil turned the matter over in his mind. Fury had already heard good things about Clint, enough to recommend him to Phil’s attention. Phil spent so little time at home – would it be very difficult to convince Clint to stay with him, even after this journey ended? Men travelled to Scirland with overseas companions all the time, usually secretaries or valets who had served them on their travels. Sir Wellworth had two Akhians who attended to him at his Scirlish manor house. Certainly Phil could do the same.

Only Clint was hardly an Akhian. He was a Scirlander, if one orphaned at a young age. Phil wondered who his parents had been. Clint himself seemed remarkably unconcerned about them, but then he had lived a full life apart from his family. Fury, perhaps, would know. 

Too soon, it was time to rise. Clint stood up slowly from the bed, stretching his arms above his head, and Phil drank in the sight of him. Clint saw him watching and smiled bashfully, then moved to pull on his clothes. Phil followed. Their things from yesterday were in a pile on the floor, so they pulled fresh shirts from their packs and dressed quickly. Properly attired, they made their way downstairs.

The house was full of people having breakfast. It was a sort of Inn-pub-meeting place, Phil gathered. The woman who had let them the room yesterday was serving plates of hot food. Most of the men present were likely hunters and would be travelling today to look for fresh meat and furs. More than one glanced nervously out the door at what sky they could see while they ate.

Phil was abruptly reminded of the body they had found yesterday, and shivered.

Clint led the way into the room and was greeted by several men by name. They smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, sparing a glance or two for Phil. Phil kept himself silent in Clint’s shadow, listening as Clint spun their cover story. The hunters present knew of Clint’s skill with a bow and nodded when he said they were hunting. A bow was certainly safer than a rifle, in these dark days.

“I know the Bulskoi has been killed,” Clint said, after a few minutes of conversation. “Has someone new been appointed and are they buying furs?”

The men all shook their heads. “No new boyar has been stationed here yet, though it’s only a matter of time. Iljish went by there the other day, said he saw some people moving about. Not sure if they’re buying, though.”

Iljish looked up at the sound of his name. “Not buying, though I tried my best. Fair grumbled at me until I left, in fact.” He spat on the floor. “Worthless Bulskoi.”

Clint nodded along with the rest of the men. “I’ve not been there before. It lies to the east, correct?”

Iljish nodded. “East around the flat top, then north for half a day, then east again. It’s a two day hike, if you be in a rush. There’s a road, of course, but no hunting that way.”

“Well, if they’re not buying, then what’s the point?” Clint asked, with a shrug. “Best to head west, maybe, over to Ustanvi.”

Iljish nodded. “Just don’t forget to head south,” he teased. “Wouldn’t want you to get caught in the snow when it comes, and be stuck here on the mountain with us Vystrani!”

The men around them laughed, and Clint made a rude gesture, though he smiled. “Fuck you, Iljish. I might have fun up here in the mountains.”

“Too much fun!” Iljish agreed, laughing. Clint shook his head and climbed to his feet. 

“Don’t listen to them,” Clint said to Phil loudly, a grin on his face. “They’re all lacklustre mountain men, out to ruin my good reputation.”

“You have a good reputation?” Iljish gasped. “I’m telling Chisholm’s ghost on you, Barton. He’ll turn over in his grave!”

Clint rolled his eyes and stepped away from the table, walking towards the hostess. He settled the bill while the men went back to their earlier conversations, though Phil noted that the room had a cheerier air than when they had first descended from upstairs. Clint’s presence could make even terrified men smile, it seemed.

“Buck Chisholm was my mentor,” Clint explained in a quieter voice, when they were again outside and leaving town. “He was born and raised in this town, and taught me the bow.”

Phil nodded. “Was he a good man?”

Clint hesitated. “He was good to me,” he said.

“Then that is what matters,” Phil answered with a smile. 

Clint glanced at him, but smiled back. Turning, they left town and headed west.

Once they were away from prying eyes, they swung back around towards the flat-topped mountain. Clint took them northeast to circle around the town, and then followed Iljish’s instructions to head east, north, and then east again. Phil could only hope they were now walking in the correct direction. To him, one section of mountainside looked the same as any other.

They stopped for the night before the sun went down. Clint hesitated before unpacking the tents. Phil met his eyes and smiled. “I think one will do for tonight, my dear, unless you have any objections.”

Clint’s face lit up in a smile, making it clear that he did not. 

In the morning, the packed their things and continued on. Around noon they found the road that led to the hunting lodge, and paralleled it, keeping out of sight in the wilderness. They saw nothing for most of the day, but towards evening saw the glow of light that meant human habitation.

They had reached the hunting lodge.

As the sun sank behind the mountains, Phil took the lead. He needed to be close enough to see the activity surrounding Khirzoff’s home. Silently, they crept towards the edge of the light. There had obviously been some fire damage to the house – Fury had warned that there might be. Still, the vast majority of the property had survived. Phil counted six horses stabled near the lodge, plus a baggage train. He could not see any of the Tsars' men, but the tassels on the horses were distinctive. They were here.

The baggage train was empty. It was likely that, though they had beat Phil to the scene, the Tsars' men had not yet discovered the information they sought.

Phil watched until the moon rose – the thin crescent waning. It would be dark by tomorrow night. There were no guards posted outside, or at least none who patrolled the area. The Tsars' men must think themselves safe, so far from civilization.

Finally, Phil gave the signal, and he and Clint crept back. They made their way south to a clearing far away from the lights, and silently unpacked their tent. It was difficult to move in the near-darkness. Clint had his bow out, ready to strike at predators. Despite such preparations, they saw nothing except a single pair of luminescent eyes in the darkness. They did not set a fire, and climbed into their single tent together.

Clint removed some strips of meat from his pack, and Phil marshaled a pile of dry fruit. They chewed in silence, sharing a canteen of water between them. Finally, Phil spoke.

“Clint,” he said, very seriously. “I have something very important that I need you to do. The Tsars' men are here and have not yet left – I can only assume they are still looking for the secret Khirzoff uncovered. If they find it, it will be the end for more than just Scirland – it will mean a terrible change for our whole world. I cannot allow that. I need you to leave me here, and make your way to the coast. Nick Fury must receive word that the Tsars' men have found Khirzoff’s lodge. He must begin preparations. I will join you if I can.”

Clint did not say anything for a long moment. Phil stared at him, wishing for more light to see by. Clint’s face was covered in darkness, but his hands were clenched into fists by his sides. 

“Please, Clint,” he said. “He must know. If –”

“Do not ask me to do this,” Clint rasped, his voice like sandpaper. “Please, Phil, if you have ever felt anything for me, do not ask me to do this.”

Phil’s breath caught. He reached forward, taking Clint’s shoulders between his hands. He could feel how tense the other man was. “I _must_ ,” he insisted. “If not only for Scirland, then because of my love for you. There are at least six men inside. I cannot honestly think that –”

“That what? That you will survive what it is you are determined to do? Do not lie to me, Phil, I saw you watching the moon – you will move against them tomorrow when the night is dark, trusting them to have no guards, trusting yourself to be able to find this secret before they do. It will be six against one, Phil! If even the slightest thing goes wrong, you will not survive.”

“Yes!” Phil shouted. He shook his head and lowered his voice. “ _Yes_. There is every chance that I will be killed or captured and exposed as a spy. I know this. It is why a message is so important. If I die here, I need to know that Fury will understand what has happened, and will be prepared.” He took a deep breath. “And I need to know that you will be safe.”

“Do not lie to me,” Clint hissed. He twisted out of Phil’s hands. “If it is your secret you are so determined to protect, then tell me now, and I will understand. Do not lie to me and speak of love, because I cannot bear to hear it.”

Phil closed his eyes, letting his hands fall to the side. “It is the truth,” he said, suddenly exhausted. “I can tell you nothing less. I understand it is not what you expected when we began this liaison, and I know there are far more worthy men than I to capture your affections. But you must know this. If I die here, I want you to know my love for you is true.”

“Phil,” Clint said, his voice breaking. He shuffled forwards, crossing the small distance between them in the tent. “Phil, Phil, Phil – do not leave me here. I swear to you, I will follow you anywhere in this world, I will do any task you ask of me, but please, _please_ , do not leave me here. Let me come with you. Two against six is much better odds. I will bring my bow. I will sit on a balcony outside and do nothing but guard your back, but please, Phil. Do not leave me here.”

Phil reached out again, with shaking hands, and captured Clint’s face between them. “You understand what you are asking me to do? You are begging me to take you with me into certain death, to aid a country no longer your own? You are asking me to possibly watch you die.”

He could feel Clint’s hands cover his own, not to move them, but to keep them in place. “To save my sanity,” Clint breathed. “If you force me to leave, Phil, I will go insane. I swear to you. I have been left behind too many times. I could not bear it, Phil. Not by you. I will go mad.”

Phil tipped his forehead until it rested against Clint’s own. “You promise to stay up high, and avoid risk where you can?”

“I do,” Clint said solemnly. “I _promise_.”

Phil exhaled. “Very well. We will go together.”


	7. Chapter 7

They did not make love that night, but tangled themselves together and slept. Phil wasn’t sure if he’d be able to rest, but wrapped around Clint, breathing in his scent and knowing him, for the moment, to be safe, lured him to sleep. They awoke in the morning entwined and a little stiff, but ready for the day ahead.

Phil retrieved the rough outline of the lodge he had made from Nick’s notes. “This is the floor plan, as well as Fury could understand,” he told Clint as they broke their fast with dried fruit. “There are two main entry points and likely a servants' exit. Our target is the basement – the original visitors to this hunting lodge found it by accident, because the door was open. Fury suspects, and I agree, that Khirzoff had it camouflaged before he was killed. It may be concealed behind some bookcases or a particularly large tapestry or painting. It likely somewhere here, along this corridor,” Phil said, tapping the paper. “Now what we are searching for, are the chemically altered remains of –” 

“Stop!” 

Phil looked up, startled. Clint had sat back from the map and was shaking his head. “Stop, Phil. I do not need to know. I did not beg to accompany you to discover your secrets – they are not important to me. What you must find is in the basement; that is all I need to know.”

“Clint,” Phil tried, “I trust you. I have trusted you with my life since we began this expedition.”

Clint smiled warmly at him. “I know, and believe me when I say that your trust is one of the great gifts I have received in my life. But I do not need to know this, Phil. I never want you to doubt me.”

“I never will,” Phil promised. 

Clint squeezed his hand, and turned back to the map. “What do you intend to do once you have found the basement?”

“I believe I shall have to set the lodge on fire,” Phil said practically. Clint startled and looked up at him. Phil shrugged. “I would not want to leave any evidence for the Tsars to find. You may not want to know what is at play here, Clint, but believe me when I tell you that it is too dangerous to any man to know. Scirland does not need this information, any more than Bulskevo does. It should all burn.”

Clint blew out a breath. “Very well. How do you suggest we start such a fire? The lodge is not small. The damage shows there has been a fire here before, and it was obviously put out.”

Phil nodded, thinking. There should be chemicals left in the basement laboratory the boyar had constructed – most likely some of those would burn, but it might not be enough to consume the entire house. The previous fire had not. 

A thought occurred to him, and he turned to Clint. “Tell me,” he asked, “did your circus performance ever include a flaming arrow?”

Clint blinked, and then grinned. “As a matter of fact, it did.”

Phil smiled back. “Then here is what we shall do…”

 

*

 

They waited until twilight had passed and true night reigned. Phil confirmed that no guards had been posted before making his way down the slope towards the small garden concealed behind the lodge. He had dressed in loose, dark clothing and rubbed soot into his face – as long as he moved stealthily, he should not be seen. 

Phil had cultivated the art of moving silently since he was a boy. His brother Robert used to wait until the house was asleep before tormenting him, and Phil became an expert in slipping from his bed and hiding where the servants could not find him until Robert finally tired of his games and fell asleep. As an adult, Phil had practised his skills many times while on missions for Fury, and had retrieved secret documents from several ambassadorial homes throughout the Continent. 

This night, Phil moved with extra care. Not only was his own life in jeopardy, after all, but Clint's as well. He waited on the hill with his bow and several arrows at the ready, the fire banked and restricted to hot coals. At Phil's signal, he would light his arrows and burn the house, causing confusion, and hopefully allowing Phil the opportunity to escape.

That was, if things went well. Phil refused to consider what might happen if they did not. The Tsars were not known for their compassion regarding spies.

The servants' door to the garden was unlocked. Phil opened it slowly, afraid it would creak, and paused when he caught sight of a shadow close by. He waited, holding his breath, until the shadow turned. Phil recognized one of the Tsars' men, likely on his way to the privy.

Phil waited until the man passed by down the corridor and then eased the door open enough to let himself through. He closed it silently behind him and turned the opposite way the guard had gone. He let his eyes adjust to the dim interior, bereft of even the stars. 

There was candlelight several corridors away – Phil could see the reflected glow. He called to the mind the floor plan he had studied with Clint earlier in the day, and turned in the direction of the secret entrance. He walked softly, careful not to make a sound. It was slow going, and Phil kept his eyes alive for the presence of another guard. Though he heard snoring in the distance, he saw no one else.

Finally, he reached the place Fury had mentioned. It was a corridor covered in tapestries. Phil peered carefully behind every one, looking for the cellar door that would lead to Khirzoff's secret laboratory. 

He found it mid-way along the corridor. The latch on the cellar door was a simple one; the key acted to pivot a narrow bar on the other side. The gap between the door and the wall was wide enough to admit the blade of a knife. Phil slipped his out of its sheath and lifted the bar.

The door clicked open. Phil caught his breath and held it, straining his ears. He heard nothing.

Steeling his resolve, Phil edged open the door and shuffled inside. Beyond were stairs leading downward. He placed his foot upon the first stair.

The muted sound of a booted foot was his only warning. Phil turned, but it was too late. A heavy object crashed into his temple, and he fell. He was unconscious before he hit the stair.

 

*

 

Phil awoke with his hands tied behind his back, sitting in a chair. His vision was blurry, and he had to blink his eyes several times to clear them. He was in a basement, he realized, looking around. Two burly men stood watching him.

“He awakes,” one of the men said, in heavily accented Vystrani. He took a long, deadly looking knife from his belt and waved it threateningly at Phil's face. “Tell us who you are.”

“My name is Buck Chisholm,” Phil said, keeping his voice rough. He spoke in Scirlish, but tried to sound as if it were not his native tongue. “I am a hunter.”

The second man scoffed, but switched languages. “Not even idiotic Vystrani hunt in the dark of night.”

“I was lost and sought shelter from the dragons. Please, do not throw me out for the beasts to find me!”

The second man looked thoughtful, but the first frowned. “How did you find this place? We have searched for days and never knew this basement was here.”

Phil's heart leapt to think that he had inadvertently lead the Tsar's men to Khirzoff's secret laboratory. “I found nothing. I saw a light in the corridor, and made to hide. One of the tapestries moved, and there was a door.”

“I do not believe him,” the first man said to his companion in Bulskoi. “He snuck in here like a thief.” The man turned back to Phil and switched languages. “Where is your rifle, if you are a Vystrani hunter?”

“I dropped it when I thought I saw a dragon,” Phil said, as if ashamed. “I ran. That is how I ended up lost. Please, do not tell my wife I ran from a dragon,” he said, beginning to struggle. “She will throw me out!”

“Relax, _кретин_ ,” the first man scoffed, “we will not tell your wife.” He turned his knife again in Phil's direction. “And neither shall you.”

Too late, Phil realized the men were planning to kill him whether they believed his lie or not. He began to struggle in earnest, but his hands and feet were bound tight and the chair he had been tied to was strong. He could not move.

The first man came towards him with the knife. Phil had a moment to watch the candlelight dance along the blade and be thankful that the men seemed to accept his story and would not look for an accomplice. Before the knife could plunge into his chest, however, a familiar _thwap_ sound echoed through the room. An arrow seemed to blossom from the man’s throat, coating Phil’s chest in blood. 

The man gave a horrible gurgle, and toppled over. Beside him, his companion startled and turned, only to be granted a similar reward. He spun with the impact of the shot, showing off the feathers of the arrow erupting from his throat, before collapsing to his knees.

Phil caught his breath and looked towards the stairs. Clint stood at the top like an avenging angel, silhouetted in the darkness. He held his bow at the ready, another arrow on the string.

“ _Clint_ ,” Phil breathed. “Are you alright?”

Clint said nothing but he nodded, his eyes flickering between the men dead at Phil's feet and the other shadows in the room. Finally, he lowered his bow and ran forward, pulling a knife from his belt.

“We must get you out of here,” he said, his voice tight. “There are four more men upstairs.”

“What happened? Why did you come into the house?” Phil asked, desperate to know, even as he felt the ropes around his wrists loosen. 

Clint hesitated. “You were gone too long.” 

Phil sighed, but said nothing. He could hardly berate Clint for disobeying his orders now, when he had clearly just saved Phil's life. “We can discuss this another time. Have you set the fires, yet?”

Clint shook his head. “I started a blaze in the northeast corner only, to distract the men. Did you find what it was you were looking for?”

Phil stood as the last of the ropes fell away. He glanced around the basement, noting the stacks of parchment and paper. Beakers and other piles of scientific equipment lay scattered about. “I think I just might have.”

One of the Bulskoi had placed a candle on the table. Phil took it and waved it about, illuminating the cellar. It was a veritable chemical laboratory, with bottles and beakers and retorts, rubber tubing and large, shallow tubs. There were piles of papers littered with formulas, and crates of chemicals labelled in Chiavoran. Beyond them – 

“Dragons,” Clint breathed.

Phil nodded. In a pile on the floor was an enormous pile of dragon bones, far too many to have come from a single animal. They were whole when they should have crumbled into dust, stacked haphazardly in a corner.

“So that is the secret they uncovered,” Clint went on, “the information Khirzoff was desperate to hide.”

Phil nodded grimly. “Indeed. Khirzoff's man discovered the method, a chemical formula that allows dragon bones to be preserved. With the bones at hand, the secret to their resilient strength can be identified. Not only would it lead to a hunt against these creatures, a hunt which has already turned deadly in this region, leaving the dragons to strike out against any perceived threat, but it would mean that those nations without significant dragon populations would be at a significant disadvantage. Already we linger at the brink of war due to the rarity of the iron deposits needed to support the new technologies. If we began to require dragons...”

Clint's voice shook. “It would be war. A world war.”

Phil pressed his lips together. “Yes.”

Clint shuddered. “We must destroy this – all of this. How can we do so cleanly this time?”

“With fire,” Phil said, holding up his candle, “and by breaking these crates here. I can read Chiavoran – if we can scatter the contents, they will burn very hot.”

“We cannot do so quietly,” Clint warned. “The other men will come.”

“Then we shall have to hurry.”

They moved swiftly, emptying the crates onto the pile of dragon bones on the floor. The parchments and papers they moved to a nearby stack, and Clint found a bucket of oil to pour over it all. They could hear men moving about upstairs, but no one appeared at the door. The found some jars filled with preservation fluids and alcohol, and added those to the pile. Finally, their preparations were complete.

“Are you ready?” Phil asked, standing beside the jars with a heavy pole he had found among the debris. 

“I am,” Clint agreed. He held the tip of one of his fire arrows to Phil's candle until the end burst into flame, and retreated slightly up the stairs.

“On the count of three,” Phil said, and readied his pole. “One, two – ” 

Raising the pole above his head, Phil brought it rushing down towards the jars with glass-shattering force. He backed away, and an instant later Clint loosened his arrow. The pile of papers, doused in oil and alcohol, caught instantly. The roar was sudden, a rushing burst of flame, and Phil paused only to make sure every last jar had been broken before taking off at a run to Clint's side. Already he could feel sweat on his face. 

Together they fled up the stairs. The fire became a wall of flame on their backs, hurrying them forwards. Above them, Phil could hear the sound of men rushing to investigate. They had barely made it to the corridor before a man came running around the corner.

“Посторонние!” 

Phil turned towards the man, side stepped, and smashed the pole against the back of his knees. He went down hard, but used his momentum to tuck into a roll. He came up swinging, a long serrated knife in his hand. Phil danced away from the blade as nimble as he could. The man dove forward and then crashed to the ground, an arrow erupting from his throat.

Phil spun back to see Clint with a terrible look on his face, his gaze sorrowful and yet resolved. Before he could say anything, another two men appeared. Clint killed them both as well. Phil released a breath he had not realized he was holding.

“Come,” he said, leading Clint towards the garden door. “We can – ”

He stopped as a shadow detached itself from the wall, lunging for Clint. Without thinking, Phil spun and clubbed it in the head with his stick. He heard the sickening crunch of bone, and realized he had struck the man upon his temple. Phil felt bile rise in his throat, but choked it down. “We can leave this way.”

Clint said nothing as he followed Phil out. Behind them, the flames were rising up from the stairs, licking along the corridors. Phil hoped everything in the basement had burned. He didn't see how anything could have survived. 

Reaching the garden, Clint and Phil both ducked into the shadows and ran for the hills. There was no sound of pursuit, and Phil began mentally checking off the bodies. There had been the two men downstairs and the three – no, four – on the main level. That meant six men were down. There had been six horses stabled outside. 

“I think that is everyone,” he said, turning to Clint. Just then there was a shout from the lodge. A man was running out of the burning building with fire alive in his hair. He screamed as he lunged for his horse. The panicked animal kicked up its heels and danced away, clearly frightened. The man sobbed, a terrible sound they could hear from the hills, and fell to his knees.

Clint pulled an arrow from his quiver. Phil said nothing as he let it fly. The man jerked like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and fell.

They waited, but no one else appeared. 

It was over.


	8. Chapter 8

They spent the rest of the night at their campsite, huddled together in the dark, saying nothing. Together they watched the glow of the fire from the hunting lodge as it rose up towards the sky, and then settled sometime near the dawn. When the sun began to pale the horizon, they stood together and walked the short distance from their campsite to the lodge. Clint warily edged his way along, carrying his bow. Phil gripped the pole he had used last night.

The lodge was nothing more than a smouldering husk. Phil searched the wreckage for the entrance to the underground lair, but it was covered by ash and debris. 

“Surely the papers have burned,” Clint said as he came up behind him. 

“They must have,” Phil agreed. He looked at the wreckage for another moment before turning to Clint. “Are there any survivors?”

Clint shook his head. Despair was heavy in his eyes. 

Phil stepped close and held him. “It had to be done. They would have killed me, or worse, you.”

Clint's expression did not change. “I could have done something different – aimed for their shoulders, perhaps. I would not have missed. I never do.”

“You could not take that chance. I knew that I could not, when that man came for you from behind. I thought of nothing but your safety.”

Something fractured in Clint's eyes. “It is not the first time I have killed a man, Phil, or even six. There is so much blood on my hands.”

Phil clutched him by the shoulders. “You are a good man, Clint Barton. If you have had to kill, then you have done so in self-defence or in the defence of others. This, I know beyond all things.”

A sob rose in Clint's throat. Phil held him as he shook. He pulled himself together quickly, wiping at his face, but Phil refused to let him go until he could meet his eyes and nod.

Nodding back, Phil released him and stepped away. He looked once more around the remains of the lodge. “There is nothing left for us here.”

They spent the morning catching the horses that had run from the fire. The lead mare was a spirited animal who kicked her heels at Phil's face, but allowed herself to be tempted by Clint's steady voice. 

The baggage cart had been destroyed by the fire, but the stable remained largely untouched. They found three saddles, enough for the majority of the horses, and several bags of oats. They made a mash for themselves and their horse train, and then set off sometime after lunch.

Instead of travelling the secret path Clint had led them down on foot, they took the main road instead. With three horses each, they were able to make very good time, switching often between their mounts. As they travelled, they discussed what story they would tell the locals they might meet. They decided to use a modified version of the truth, to better dissuade rumours.

By the time they stopped for camp, they had travelled a fair distance. Phil set up the tent while Clint saw to the horses, and they both made sure the beasts were fed before they themselves were. They collapsed that night onto their cot, the now-unfamiliar pains of the saddle coming on the heels of a night without sleep. They did not even bother to remove their outer clothes, but simply fell asleep together tangled in a heap of limbs.

Phil pressed a kiss to Clint’s shoulder before he nodded off, thankful beyond words that they had survived.

They awoke together just before the dawn, and took the time to explore each other as they had not done the night before. Phil kissed Clint deeply, wanting him to feel how much Phil loved him, how his actions in Phil’s defence had changed nothing between them. 

“Phil,” Clint gasped, into his mouth. “ _Phil!_ ”

They coaxed each other to climax, and then dozed until the sun rose. Finally they awoke, cleaned themselves, and saw to the animals. The horses were well rested from the half-day's travel and saddled easily.

They next several days passed in such a pleasant fashion. Clint shot from the saddle for their supper and there were enough oats to sustain the horses, if they let them graze before and after they set up camp. The wind was coming coolly down the mountains, reminding them that winter was on its way. It hurried them southward when Phil would rather have dawdled, uncomfortably aware that the small bubble he and Clint had been engaged in these past few weeks was swiftly coming to a close.

Indeed, Clint seemed to feel the same. Their lovemaking became more desperate, more passionate – full of biting kisses and urgent, seeking hands. Phil spent the hours riding thinking of only two things: his report to Fury, and the prospect of losing Clint. 

He could not bear it. Once he acknowledged this, his own decision was much easier to make.

The speed of their descent down the mountainside unfortunately prohibited them from spending the night in Clint's small town. Instead, they made it to Ruzvorchi in record time, and sold the majority of the horses there. They spun the story they had perfected on the road, of an unsuccessful hunting expedition, and the discovery of a pack of horses wandering near the remains of Khirzoff's lodge. 

They were clearly the Tsars' horses but they had been alone, and rescuing horses from the cold of winter was not stealing. The price they received for the animals was substantially less than they were worth, but the risk of doing business was worth the reduction. Phil haggled enough to look respectable, and then agreed on a price. It was not as though he needed the money.

They kept one horse each, choosing the two best of the lot, and proceeded with less haste to the port of Trinque-Liranz. Once there, they sold the remaining horses and Phil again took rooms at the lodging house he had rented during his original stay in Chiavora. 

Clint looked nervous as he stepped into the obviously expensive rooms. A harbour town, Trinque-Liranz catered to Scirlanders. The lodging house was done in the usual style, with a separate apartment for valets and staff.

Clint visibly schooled his face to resolution as he turned towards Phil. “Sir,” he began, obviously trying for a distanced tone. “At this point in our journey – ”

Phil hushed him by stepping in close and kissing him lightly upon the lips. “At this point in our journey,” he said instead, “it is necessary that I ask you a question.”

Clint looked at him confused. “Sir?”

Phil found his heart was beating in his throat. All his carefully considered words, the speeches he had written in his head as they rode, deserted him.

“Clint,” he said, wishing to dispel the formal atmosphere Clint had created, “I want you to understand that I love you, and that I never, ever, want to let you go. The past few weeks have shown me how lonely I was before you came into my life. If I could, I would propose to you right now, and carry you home on my shoulders like a bride. There would be no boundaries between us, no distinction of rank.”

Clint looked stunned, as if he could not believe what Phil was saying. “Truly?” he whispered.

Phil took his hands and held him close. “Truly,” he said. He held the possibility in his mind for one bright, shining moment, and then sighed. “But that is not to be. I cannot marry you, nor could our relationship be open were we to return to Scirland together. Therefore, if you will have me, I have two proposals for you.”

Clint clutched at him. “I told you that I would follow you anywhere, and I meant those words. I love you, Phil. I will stay by your side for as long as you will have me.”

Phil could not resist kissing him then, doing so until desire began to build between them. When it did, he pulled back. “Wait, my dear – I need you to understand your options. As I see it, we have two. We can, if you wish, return to the mountains.”

“To Vystrana?”

Phil nodded. “You said it yourself – a relationship between two men is not such a strange thing there. We could retire to the mountainside, to your small town. I have the funds to do so. We could live there, together, in whatever manner we so choose.”

Clint's eyes became distant. “I must admit that there is much to be admired in that plan. I would dearly love to stand beside you, in a world where we would not be scorned.” After a moment, though, he sighed and shook his head. “But it would not do. You would be bored, Phil, and truth be told, so would I. What would we do in the Vystrani countryside?”

“You could hunt,” Phil told him seriously, “and teach bowcraft to small Vystrani children. You could teach me the language, and the craft. I would spend my time in correspondence, and likely write my memoirs. I have travelled much throughout the world, and it is time some of it was put on paper, in more than travel documents and such. There is much we could do to occupy our time.”

Clint did him the courtesy of thinking about it again for a moment, but in the end shook his head. “No. I cannot see it. Perhaps for a time, for a year or so, yes. But forever? No, Phil. It is not us.”

Phil let out a breath. He did not disagree. “Very well. In that case, we have another option. We can return to Scirland together. I could not march you back as my bride, perhaps, but I could take you on as a valet. We would be forced to hide our true relationship and in the eyes of society, you would be my inferior.” He looked at Clint and held his eyes. “That would never be true, of course. You are my equal and my partner, and I would shout that fact to the world, if I could. If we return to Scirland, however, we could not do that. We would be forced to hide.”

Surprisingly, Clint smiled. “I know such an option is distasteful to you, Phil, but you have to understand that to one raised as I have been, it is not so. It would be difficult at times, perhaps, most especially because I am no valet and have not trained as such, but it feels the more natural option. I know that is not what you want to hear.”

Phil made a face. “Not especially, but I do understand. Let me assure you that there would be compensation. I am required to return home at least once every several years. My brother Robert runs the family estate, and does so relatively well. In exchange for keeping busy and out of his hair, he funds my expeditions. It is during my travels that I do work for Director Fury, as you have guessed.”

“Work such as spying on Bulskoi ambassadors and destroying their hunting lodges?” Clint teased.

“Work such as that,” Phil agreed with a smile. “We would return to Scirland, attend one or two parties to demonstrate that I have not completely been lost to society, visit my brother at the family estate, and then travel to Falchester. There, I would request Fury send me away again, as I usually do. The only difference is that you would come with me. You would do so as my valet, though I am known for travelling with little company. As soon as we leave Scirlish soil, we would be as we are again.”

Clint licked his lips, an unconscious gesture. “While we are in Scirland, then, we would have to remain apart?”

Phil shook his head. “Only when circumstances demand it. I rent a small apartment in Falchester when I am there. It has been quite the scandal that I do not have a valet. Your presence would be remarked upon only as good fortune, and behind closed doors we may do as we wish.”

“I would like that,” Clint said. Heat came into his gaze. “I do not want to lose you. I have fallen in love with who you are, Phil, and that is not only a scholar and a gentleman, but a fierce fighter and a travelling companion as well. I fear that if we were to retire to the countryside, you would lose that piece of yourself. So too, in fact, would I. I have travelled my entire life, first with the circus and then on my own. I am not ready to settle down – not yet. I want to see the world, and I want to see it with you.”

Phil had to kiss him then, and did so. They tumbled backwards to the bed. “I love you,” he whispered into Clint's skin. “I never want to leave you. I want to show you the world.”

“We will see it,” Clint gasped as Phil bent to undo his trousers. “We will both see it, together.”

 

*

 

They spent several days in the port of Trinque-Liranz, readying themselves for travel. Phil copied his notes as was his habit, writing in the familiar code he used with Fury. When he was done, he sent one stack of notes in a sealed container on the fastest ship to Scirland, so Nick would know what had transpired in the Vystrani mountains, and that the secret of Khirzoff's discovery was safe.

For now.

Clint, meanwhile, threw himself into the role of a valet. He spent some time every morning observing the other patrons of the lodging house, learning what their valets did for them, and how. Phil gave him some funds to purchase an appropriate wardrobe, and could not resist peeling him out of it at the end of every day. Clint, who looked good in everything, appeared especially tantalizing when dressed in Scirlish garb.

Phil had not employed a valet in years, but had experience with the tradition. He understood that many of the tasks he undertook himself – cooking, cleaning, dressing himself and shaving, were things a valet was supposed to do. He had done perfectly well on his own for years, but he was at least able to instruct Clint in the basics. There would be several parties he would be forced to attend once he returned to Scirlish soil. Phil had always borrowed a valet in the past, but now he would be bringing Clint along instead. He had to learn the part.

No one could know what they were to each other, not if this gamble was to succeed.

Nick would guess, of course – of that, Phil had no doubt. His friend had long suspected Phil's proclivities, though it was not something they had ever spoken of. Most of his correspondents had pushed him to settle down and find someone to share his life with, but Nick never had. He understood Phil was not the marrying type.

By the time Phil's notes were finished and transcribed into code, Clint had a decent handle on the major tasks required of a valet. That he also practised with his bow and occasionally his knife, Phil was glad. Just as Clint did not want him to retire any part of himself, he did not want Clint to do the same. When they stayed in Falchester, they would simply have to find space and room for Clint to maintain his skills. It was unsaid but understood between them. 

Finally, the day came to leave Trinque-Liranz. Phil stood on the bow of the passenger ship, Clint at his shoulder, half a step behind. They watched together as the coastline shrank from view and the ocean engulfed them. It was late in the year for passage, but Phil had managed to book them on one of the last boats home. The emergence of steam power meant they had greater leeway during the seasons, but soon it would be too late for even these powerful ships to sail. The wind whipped at their clothing.

“I never thought I would miss such a country,” Phil said to Clint as the mountains faded in the distance. “Everything I had heard about it was so distasteful, so rugged, and yet I find that it is one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited, and has brought me much joy.”

“I concur,” Clint said from behind him, a smile curving in his voice. “I may not wish to retire to the mountains just yet, but I would like to visit them again. One day.”

“One day,” Phil agreed, as the ocean wind picked up around them. “When we have seen the world and travelled throughout it, when we have shared wine on the borders of the desert, I will bring you back here. We will go riding along the mountainside, and remember.”

Clint met his eyes and smiled. “I look forward to it, sir. To that day, and to all the days in between.”

Phil smiled back at him. Together, they turned towards the horizon, and the future. 

Scirland. 

They were going home.

 

 

The End.

 

 

 

 

Translations: 

Посторонние!: “Intruders!”

кретин: “idiot”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no mention of Vystrani gentlemen preferring other gentlemen in the novel. I am going to pretend that such indelicate rumours could never have reached a woman’s ears ;)


End file.
